Homecoming
by EOlivet
Summary: Mary brings her son home from the hospital. Spoilers for the S3 Christmas Special.


Disclaimer: The characters you recognize described herein are the property of Julian Fellowes and ITV. All other characters are my creation. No copyright infringement is intended.

Timeline: Post-S3 Christmas Special.

Acknowledgments: To this wonderful fandom. Thank you for all the lovely M/M memories. This is my attempt at a harsh, but hopefully realistic depiction of at least a portion of the grieving process.

* * *

The day Mary was to leave the hospital, the lorry driver who had reported the death of her husband had unexpectedly returned. From what little she could hear, it appeared he had neglected to mention that it was his lorry that had in fact caused the accident. Anna and the nurse had thankfully kept him at bay, while her mother stood guard by the door as everyone was made privy to his confession.

The man's protestations of apologetic sorrow to her, to the family and to her son had of course, moved everyone else to tears – including her son, who had set to wailing as soon as the man's grief-stricken lament had filtered through to her room.

"Would you send that poor man home? I really don't think my child should hear this much about the death of his father," she'd instructed her own mother, as she held her troubled child to her breast.

"Oh, Mary…" Mama had been acting particularly American since it had happened. "He clearly feels awful about this." Between her embraces and her tears, it was a wonder she hadn't smothered her grandson by accident. How terribly inconvenient that would've been.

She gave her mother a steely-eyed stare. "And will his feelings stop my husband from dying on the side of the road?"

Her mother winced, and said no more – and Mary was grateful for the peace. She turned her attention to her son, adjusting the blankets around him. Of course, the nurse would make sure he'd been properly attired for the short drive home – but she did not trust the woman.

She did not trust anyone. Not anymore.

After the driver had been dispensed with, another driver showed up and it was time. She was helped out of bed, as if she was an invalid – and her child was taken from her by that same nurse.

"Careful – he's sleeping," she'd warned almost under her breath. Mary's arms felt incomplete without her son, and she cursed herself at this burst of sentimentality. That blasted nurse was cradling him a little too closely, and Mary felt certain the child would wake at any minute.

Anna helped her undress, slinging the nightdress and dressing gown over her arm where Mary's hand snatched at it – almost of its own volition. Fisting into the material of the sleeve of the dressing gown, her fingers covering where his had…

"Take those away." She swallowed, then tried to arrange her expression in a more neutral manner. "Thank you, Anna."

Nodding, Anna then helped Mary on with the black dress she'd had to retrieve from the house. Indeed, Mary felt quite certain she was the only pregnant lady who'd come to the hospital with a full case, whose maid had to fetch her still one more dress.

After all, it wasn't as if she'd packed mourning clothes for their—_her_ Scottish holiday.

Papa had wanted to send for a carriage, but she had thought it absolutely ridiculous for such a short journey. So, a car had been ordered instead and somehow, she was unsurprised when she exited the hospital and saw another familiar face.

He said nothing as he opened the door – the former chauffeur who'd not yet forgotten his former profession. Mary headed off any of his planned words of sympathy with a tight smile. "No doubt you're here at Papa's urging."

Dipping his head, Tom cracked a smile of his own. "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say."

"No. Of course you're not."

When her mother and Anna were situated in the car, the nurse finally placed Mary's son back into her arms, and they were on their way back through the village. As they drove, she noticed Tom studiously avoiding any open road.

She wondered if that, too, had been a directive from her father. _Don't let Mary see the place where her husband's car veered off the road and crushed him to death. Heaven forfend she might see some of the grass still stained with his blood._

The car made its way past Crawley House, and the church. Where she'd worn white inside and black outside…the rows of stones in the churchyard… Another flash of black, another gaping hole in the earth, another stone in the place where he'd stood beside her every time, but _tomorrow_—

"Stop the car," Mary ordered suddenly – her hand covering the baby's head as the car jerked forward, screeching to a halt.

Mama frowned. "Mary, what—"

But she handed the child to her own mother, one hand wrenching the door open while the other flew to her mouth, tripping over her feet to reach the side of the road as she vomited beside the Crawley House gate.

When she looked up, she could see down the path to the door she'd once viewed from a much higher vantage point. Isobel was in there now, no doubt. She'd not seen her mother-in-law—her _cousin_, since the day both their lives had been irrevocably altered.

Shaking her head, Mary walked swiftly back to the car, ignoring her mother's sympathetic look as she handed Mary back her son.

"Perhaps we should have taken the road with the dead body," Mary quipped as the car started up again.

"Mary!" Her mother gasped – looking for a moment as though she might scold her. Even Tom looked as though he didn't quite understand, but at least he knew enough not to say a thing.

"Well, that is why Papa had Tom drive us through the village, is it not? Because everyone thinks I'll fall to pieces if I catch even a glimpse of the place where my husband died."

Mama gave Mary a look, and quickly changed the subject: "Have you any thoughts…" her mother began. She glanced uneasily at the baby, and Mary instantly did not like her tone. "…on what to call him yet? Because I was thinking—"

"I'll worry about my son's name after we bury his father, if that's quite alright, Mama." Her grip tightened on her child, and she adjusted the blankets around him until they were exactly as she preferred.

She kept her eyes on her son until they were stopped outside of the house, and the door had opened. Her mind drifted back to another time, being helped out of a car and entering the house – each with the same thought… _One day this will truly be our home._

A fresh wave of nausea overtook her, and she pushed the memory aside as she entered through the familiar doors of the home that would now never truly be hers.

"One day, this will be yours, my darling," she whispered to her son, holding him more tightly to her as Carson nodded approvingly.

There was so much to show him, so much she wanted him to see – but her attempt at a ground floor tour kept faltering. She stood in the library and looked out of the French windows until her vision grew blurry. She walked back through memories at every turn – a touch, a song, a dance—several dances, a kiss—no, several kisses - until the nanny they'd—_she'd_ hired from the village found her and the baby aimlessly wandering around the hall as if replicating steps from a long ago routine.

"Were you supposed to be here this early?" Mary wanted to know, but her heart momentarily softened at how terrified the girl looked. Until Mary remembered there was no one to tell her to show her true nature anymore, and grew even more irritated. "Take the child up to the nursery, and be quick about it. He's had a trying start to his life, and it's only going to get worse in the morning, so he needs his rest."

The nanny nodded, gratefully accepting the child – who Mary was thankful to stop holding for the moment, as she told herself her arms were growing weary. It was at least several hours until dinner anyway – and she suddenly felt slightly unsteady on her feet.

Anna met her at the top of the stairs. "I'm very sorry, m'lady..." Mary was ready to protest, until Anna hastily added, "The maids haven't quite finished going over your room. So I'm afraid…you'll have to use your former room, if that's alright."

One look at Anna told Mary all she needed to know about the veracity of her statement. "Well, I suppose I have little choice," she said, more kindly than her words might have indicated.

The fire had been lit and the curtains were not fully drawn – indicating there was never going to be another choice. Anna had known Mary could no sooner sleep in their—_her_ other room, in _that_ bed…

Sighing, she sank down onto the coverlet of the bed from her past.

Her arms curled around her pillow – as if she was a child trying to sleep after a particularly long day of fun and play. How she envied that child. How she envied the child soon to be sleeping down the corridor, unaware he would be taken to the cemetery tomorrow to see his father laid to rest.

She'd always suspected she might one day have to bring her infant son to a funeral. But she always planned on it being for his grandfather or his grandmother or even his great grandmother. Never his father…

Turning to face the fireplace to rid herself of these thoughts, she found another memory playing before her instead.

She saw her fingers clutching at the memory of a photograph, back when she was a happier girl who thought she could never be sadder, speaking to a God she was fairly certain didn't exist – at least not now, not anymore.

Still…the words formed in her head, and she found herself repeating them over and over. She didn't even know for whom they were directed as she drifted passively into dreamless sleep:

_Keep him safe…keep him safe…keep him safe…_

Sometime later, her eyes flew open. It was completely dark. The fire was nothing but embers, the curtains had been drawn and there was a tray on the table beside her bed. She had no memory of asking for one.

But there was some reason she'd awakened – something or... The sound was barely audible, but seemed to echo in her ears – a beacon calling to her.

She stumbled out of bed, still dressed, meandering into the corridor – following the sound she could scarcely hear except as an echo in her heart. It grew louder and louder the more she walked, passing familiar doors, knowing where she was going without even being consciously aware of it.

Her son was wailing - his anguish stabbing into her heart like few things in life ever had. She pushed open the door of the day nursery turned sitting room turned nursery – well aware that had she not accepted Anna's obvious fib, she could've been steps from this room instead of what seemed half a world away.

"Shhhhhh," she soothed, picking up her child as Nanny's face appeared in the doorway. Mary shook her head, and thankfully, the woman seemed to disappear in short order.

"Don't cry," she pleaded softly to the oblivious bundle in her arms, which only caused him to scream more loudly. He cried as if his whole world was collapsing, as if he would never be happy again, as if there was something tearing him apart from within.

"Don't cry, my darling." Her voice was thick now, her eyes filling as her baby continued to sob. She soothed him, gently patting his back in comfort. "It's alright."

The words were hollow, but she repeated them. "It's alright, we will be alright." Her reassurances seemed to grow more futile, and her faith in them started to shake for the first time since she'd heard those dreaded words at the hospital. _Not now, no, not now – please, not when he needs me, no…_

"Oh, Matthew…"

It simply slipped from her lips, almost on instinct, the tears flowing freely now as she turned her face up, here in the dark and quiet where no one could see. Somewhere between a plea and a prayer – a desperate wish or a hopeless lament.

She hugged her son to her as she repeated it. "Oh, Matthew." Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs, but her touch still attempted to soothe and comfort. As if by invoking his father's name, he could somehow be here or…

Mary cradled her son, rocking him gently in her arms. "Matthew." It was like a lullaby now, one that was starting to calm the child, at least. _Of course it would – everyone loves Matthew_, she thought suddenly.

Then she smiled through the first tears she'd shed since she'd heard the news.

Her fingertip touched lightly against the child's cheek. His loud cries had subsided to more benign noises. "_Matthew_," she whispered, and if his small fingers clasped hers a bit tighter, surely it was her imagination.

Tomorrow, she would bury her husband. But tonight, she would name her— _their_ son.

The End.


End file.
